


Stagehand (n). A person who works backstage or behind the scenes in theatres, film, television, or location performance.

by kusege



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Gen, Miscommunication, mild body horror, slightly meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21628513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kusege/pseuds/kusege
Summary: “Stagehand might be a form or a manifestation of Charlie. This is mainly supported by the name, as Charlie was Maxwell's stagehand before the events of Don't Starve, it being active during the night, like the current form of Charlie, and the rose in the vase being like the one Charlie had in her hair.” (From the Don’t Starve wiki)Stagehand drabbles, centering around a headcanon of mine.
Relationships: Charlie & Everyone
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	Stagehand (n). A person who works backstage or behind the scenes in theatres, film, television, or location performance.

**Author's Note:**

> So, before we get into this- this headcanon.
> 
> It basically centers around the question of why the Stagehand is even there. What purpose does it serve? End Tables are situationally useful, sure, but.... why is it in the game in the first damn place?
> 
> Well, the Stagehand seeks out fire- not just light sources, but fire. The thing that players create. It seeks out players.
> 
> .... so what if it was always just Charlie, wanting to sit by the fire’s side with everyone else?
> 
> Anyways, enjoy the fic!

_I._

_The Stagehand is a naturally spawning object in Don't Starve Together, introduced in A New Reign. It spawns in a circle of 5 Roses. The Stagehand seems to have something moving under it resembling a Night Hand._

Maxwell grumbled as he shoved his way through the undergrowth, pine sap surely staining his suit already. What a disaster. Just ten minutes into this world and things were already going wrong; he’d just barely managed to convince his former pawns not to rip him to shreds (how much of that was Wilson’s work he’d rather not admit), and now his suit was being destroyed. 

Was there even anything useful out here? A few ponds, flowers, all the same useless randomly generated nonsense, he already knew there was nothing, nothing, _nothing_ ever useful, the pawns may use the resources provided but they were little more than meaningless junk for all the good it did them, he would find no way to restore this, no way out, absolutely nothing he didn’t already know about-

“What the bloody-“ 

Maxwell caught himself before he could go too far, say too much, expose his past, but… this _was_ something new. A small, round table, cloth, vase, flower, and all.

(Not just a flower, a rose.)

(Not just a vase, but one made of marble.)

(Not just a cloth, repurposed stage curtains- red velvet, gilded rope.)

Something about it… unsettled him.

(Maybe the Void beneath its covering, the one that fluttered in a wind that did not exist.)

Maxwell turned on his heel, and told no one.

—

_II._

_At night, the creature's legs creep out from under the table and search for a light source in its vicinity._

Survival-tempered nerves held steady even as night fell, a forced calm overcoming Wilson as he reached for the last pieces of grass he needed, preparing himself a torch. _Panicking will not help you survive,_ he reminded himself. _If you die, you will have to try again. Panicking does not keep you alive. Only action does that._

_This isn’t nearly as bad as it’s been before._

The scream drew his thoughts away from the world of darkness, peace shattering under sheer animal terror. God, who was that, who was closest to him again _,_ he asked himself as he sprinted forward into the black.

His feet fell unsteadily upon the ground he could not see, rocks, ridges of packed earth, tree roots, all striving to trip him, but he kept running. He had gotten used to it after a time, being unable to see more than a foot in front of his face… he still missed his miner hat, though. The first chance he got, he was replacing that.

Another scream, this one far closer to him, but also weaker. At least he’d aimed well. “I have a light over here!” Wilson shouted, hoping that they’d live to make it to him before the creature struck again. Them even surviving a few hits was impressive.

That feat made much more sense when the person stumbled into the torchlight- bloodied and weakened he may be, but Wolfgang’s increased capacity to withstand injuries was too impressive for Wilson to doubt (although he itched to study it.) “Tiny man… brings fire…” he panted. “Is good… very good...”

Wilson nodded, patting him on the shoulder. “Sit down, let me see if I’ve got any glands on me for those wounds.” He turned away, rummaging through his backpack with one hand. “Don’t want an infection, do- ...do you hear that?”

The sound was quiet, delicate, chimelike, and Wilson closed his eyes to listen- picking out shreds of melody, did he know this song perhaps-

“Table is _walking!”_

His eyes flew open as he spun around to glare at Wolfgang, but the man was simply pointing, face wild with fear, and when Wilson looked there- well. That certainly was a table, lowering itself down onto the ground by some strange, handlike mechanism.

Wolfgang skittered back to camp for some real medical attention as soon as the sun rose. Wilson spent half the day trying to study the table, but gave it up as a lost cause after thousands of attempts to look under its skirt revealed nothing.

—

_III._

_The Stagehand will only be attracted to sources that produce fire, like Campfires and Torches._

There were no bugs, only design flaws- the fireflies, the moon, the hideous overgrown mushrooms- things that went nowhere, led nowhere, did not go to anyone.

It would be lost within days, and it was already so rare that one of them stumbled across it in the right circumstances. It had never been brought back. It was broken, flawed, needed fixing. 

There was nothing to be done but to cut those other light options out, even if it eliminated lanterns. She would have to hope for torchlight, or wildfire, or a hurried camp.

How else would she take her place by their fire?

How else would she be there for them?

(She could never make it up to them.)

(She still had to try.) 

—

_VI._

_If the player gets too close to the table when it is visible at night, the creature will go back under the table. Characters have different quotes when the "creature" is standing._

Wendy watched behind her, raising the torch as high as she could into the air (her arms were small, but the gesture was there.) Webber clung to her side, spider-claws digging into her clothing like burrs. They stared, together, at the truly beautiful table.

“Do you think there’s a spider under there too?” Webber whispered to her. Wendy shrugged. She hoped there was, for her friend’s sake, but it did not seem to make sense for there to be.

“We should leave,” she said instead, and the two children slowly backed away.

There was a quiet sound, like a muted piano being played, the handle of a rusted music box being turned, and both gasped, Webber burying their face in Wendy’s side, Wendy’s free hand holding their head close. “THAT’S NOT A SPIDER!” they screamed. 

Wendy had to agree. It was like some demented handpuppet, crawling towards them on all fours, almost prancing, but seeming pained, as if the invisible strings pulling at its segmented legs dug in with every step. It was walking on tiptoe, en pointe, and Wendy could almost imagine its bloodied feet. If the thing had eyes, she was certain that they would be overflowed with tears. 

“Poor creature…” She took a step forward towards it, against Webber’s desperate tugs in the other direction, but it tucked itself away before she could get any further. Wendy sighed. Crippled by fear, then, or perhaps shyness. Incapable of reaching its final form, doomed to suffer and strive for that which it could not obtain forever.

“Wendy… let's go back? Please?”

“... you can,” she said, handing them her spare torch. “But I shall spend the night here. This way, we will prevent it from following us back home.”

Webber took the torch, but did not light it, just clung with their claws and studied her face. “Are you sure? It’s scary out here alone, I don’t want you to be scared all night...”

Wendy smiled. “I have never been so fearful of the darkness as the rest of you. Go. This table cannot hurt me.”

They looked uncertain, but nodded all the same, lighting their torch from hers and scurrying off into the impenetrable darkness. Wendy sighed, and sat on her legs next to the table. The table did nothing.

“How sad. You will never obtain the results you crave, and yet you will always strive for them.”

Wendy played with the gilded tassel. The table did nothing.

“Fated to never find a home in the light, creature of shadow that you are.”

Wendy rested her head against the table. The table did nothing.

In time, Wendy nodded off, torch falling to the ground, head heavy, hair spilling over the fine red velvet. The table’s hand emerged and pushed the stray strands out of her face.

—

_V._

_It cannot be destroyed, but hammering it 86 times (requiring 2 Hammers) will make it drop an End Table Blueprint (which can be dropped multiple times), used to craft the End Table. However, the count will reset if 15 seconds pass between two Hammer strokes._

Winona had no idea what to _make_ of this thing.

A table this fancy-looking in the middle of the absolute wilderness? Not a scratch or stain on it, when her own overalls were half shredded from just a few days? (Granted, the spiders probably didn’t attack the table, those legs must be much less tasty than her own, but still.)

She tossed her hammer- not the lovely metal thing she’d kept by her side every day before this, crude stone lashed to a weak excuse for a handle- before sighing. She sure as hell couldn't think of a use for it, might as well see if it couldn’t be used for firewood.

The table stood up to one hit. Then two, and three- there should have been some damage done by now? Then four- the rose didn’t even seem to know it was being swung at. Then five, six- anyone else would likely give up, but Winona was never the type. Then seven- how sturdy could this silly little table be? Eight, nine- was the cloth covering it some kind of shock absorber? Ten, eleven, twelve- her hammer wasn’t looking too good, was it worth it to keep trying? Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and the head of the hammer crumbled to dust.

Winona stared at the now useless hammer, and then at the table, and then back to the hammer. It… must be some kind of trap. One of those endless tasks. Rolling a rock forever, was that how the story went? Or was it eagles and livers, or grains of sand, or food always just out of reach? 

She’d never been much for myths.

Her sister had liked them more.

She shoved the hammer’s handle into her pockets and got a move on. No point in dwelling on impossible tasks and infinite punishments. There was work to be done.

—

_IV._

_If the Stagehand starts burning, or if it gets close to a fire, a Night Hand will come out from under the tablecloth to extinguish the flames._

“STOP!! FOLLOWING!! ME!!” Willow, eyes wild and hollow, nerves frayed, screamed at the table. The table, of course, did nothing. It was not scared or intimidated, it just retracted its legs and sat, smug. It was mocking her, the stupid thing, making fun of how it could do whatever it wanted to, and sit in the dark, and hide. Willow wanted to hide all the time, but she couldn’t. Stupid table.

“Well, how about this?!” 

She reached out with her lighter, running it along the edge of the tablecloth, watching as the fringe started to go up in beautiful, bright, warm flames; then jolting back in disgust as a shadow hand emerged- those disgusting, fire-stealing bastards- and snuffed out her beautiful creation in one fell swoop.

Willow practically howled, paranoia and rage condensing into a feral fury, and she began to shake the table, kicking and screaming, lighter flickering all the while, hoping that _something_ she did would cause it to go away. “Gross ugly nasty stupid table! Go away, leave me alone! Go _die!”_

The table sat there, doing nothing, not even polite enough to allow itself to be destroyed. Willow carried on until the sun rose and the shadows began to hiss. Then, she scurried off to camp, muttering to Bernie all the while about mushrooms and naps and fires- leaving the Stagehand there.

Somewhere, someone was crying.


End file.
